questions and pleas
There are ornate possibilities in the fracture of minutes, ineptitudes and parallels, undistinguished secondhand dares into spaces indiscriminately placed by vagaries and disturbing images of chic sleek nuances, and there are blonde songs with blood tears on cheeks standing up naked with a microphone to reach down into homes lost, creased on khaki jeans and the redeeming nature of performance.
And there are incantations being sung from nether heroes, spun from mics like ladybugs stuck in webs; and there are spiders which couldn't take voices far enough to hitchhike back from hell again or spend ten simple moments to attempt to distinguish listening from likelihood. There are factions of heroes, actions of mystery, woulds and would nots, zeros and wons, possibilities, dignities, never expressed thoughts lost by skeptic antiseptic sorts who arrive with questions and doubt. Interjections of I can't figure out why I can't figure out why. Why tries are echoed from the back row.
Questions and pleas. Investments. Freeze-dried wonders and attestments to hundreds of thousands of lessons and messages, maybe, numbers of vast accounts of what happened then or now and how the hell can I tell why I ended up here anyway, and wow, who's to say what there is to invest in? Who's to say?
Who's to say what there is to invest in?
"Never end a sentence or a question with a preposition," the good book of style states. But that's just fiction and placating tension and resolve with the gall of an insurgent. The fact that you can't, makes you believe you can solve the urgent as well as the easy. Not to be easy is the perfect job for a whore. She grabs your pennies like gold-plated copper. Fill her pockets with more.
The point of all I'm saying is you can't help evading belief if your chief motive is to relieve yourself from thinking about it. If there is nothing to believe in, I die lying like horizontal victories on a board game, giving up my pieces for position.
I believe in questioning pleas and pleases of could you believe a second time. I believe in the rhyme of interior digits, widgets which could cure illnesses, visage gardens of pause, laws which adamantly assert natural perception. Fluidity. Reinvention. Revisions of history to cause it to make sense, because it is in the restructuring of luxury and the intense search for something new to invent, that takes us to the climbing. Could I lend you a past or present or future tense?
Where is the rhyming of forgetting doubt and figuring out what the questions are? I believe in a star, far off days weeks months years ago image, trimmed by focus and mission. Listen, I don't have time to explain. Blame me or don't. Tame me if you can but please take note that I believe believing is a rote exercise of the wise who have the comprehensive theory that nearly all of us want to believe in something like a jewel tree or a planet where you and me can be comfortably resilient, questions and pleas ceased like the millions of stars whose light cannot reach through cloud layers, players of atmosphere, meteorologists, clear thinkers, blinks of moonshine, whines and repartees slanted to say something else entirely.
Evolution owns the variety of hope. We cope how we cope, with whatever beliefs we conceive of, Love being the primary motive. We are votive candles waiting to be lit. Lights go out.
Darkness need us because of it.